The tree we grew up in had burned. Everything had burned. It burned everywhere - in our eyes, our mouths, our stomachs, the backs of our, now, hairless necks. These hands; the ones attached to my wrists had burned my entire life. They had spent their time reaching for unreachable things, holding cold women, socking magic men. I now realize I have spent my entire life watching my hands. Detached from them. And now, the tree we grew up in had burned.